


“But I must also feel it as a man.”

by nxttime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Emotional Angst/Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Good lordy, I Made Myself Cry, It goes hard bro, Jason Todd Gets A Hug, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, No proofreading we die like mne, nderuighvbtwefcqdw, title makes no sense if you're an uncultured swine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 06:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxttime/pseuds/nxttime
Summary: Jason died.But he came back.Maybe he came back different, but he came back all the same.





	“But I must also feel it as a man.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnAllWriteLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnAllWriteLife/gifts), [Cdelphiki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cdelphiki/gifts).



> This takes place in the regular comics, with only two things amended: Bruce slit the side of Jason's neck open like he did in Under The Red Hood, and Jason hasn't attacked Tim, at all. Damian isn't in the picture, and neither are Cass and Duke.  
> Jason's about nineteen-twentyish.
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy! I banged this out in, like, three hours? Four, tops?

Batman stared at the boy-come-man sitting across from him, hands cuffed to the table, green eyes bright in self-vindication. The white streak of hair over his eyes didn’t lessen the passionate fire that burned in the green oceans.

“You killed again.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jason still answered him.

“Yes.”

Shoulders tightening at the answer, and fists curling, Bruce said, “We don’t kill, Jason.”

“I haven’t been part of your collective ‘we’ since you slit my throat,” Jason hissed, the fiery green in his eyes flaring up, his own hands balling into fists, and the muscles on his arms tensing and visibly straining under the fabric of his grey long-sleeved shirt. “So, next.”

“You promised.”

“They were _child traffickers_ that _raped_ the kids and got them _hooked on drugs_ to force them to stay! You _know_ how my mom died _!_ You _know_ my childhood!”

“We had a _deal,_ Jason.”

“I don’t give a shit about _your_ moral superiority, Bruce!” Jason shouted, slamming a fist down hard on the table, making the glasses of water jump a little.

Bruce merely blinked, unbothered by the outburst, and Jason kept talking.

“Fuck you, Bruce, _fuck you,”_ he seethed, eyes flashing again. “Maybe I’d put up with this shit if it was on a different case—just _maybe—_ but no. _No._ Not this one. They were child traffickers. They were rapists. They were drug dealers that _forced addictions_ on these _children.”_

Jason’s hands shook and Bruce was struck with the feeling that Jason wasn’t seeing him, instead seeing something or someone else.

His voice lowered to a whisper.

“Do you know how many bodies I found, B? How many ten-year-olds and eight-year-olds died of _overdosing?”_ His eyes re-focused on Bruce, and Bruce simply sat there.

“Ask me.”

Bruce decided to comply, though dread was coursing throughout him as surely as blood did, weighing his heart and limbs down like anchors.

He inhaled a little then forced the question out.

“How many?”

“ _Thirty-eight.”_

Bruce’s mind spun at the number and his breath hitched. He was left reeling, struggling to maintain his composure, and Jason sat there, gazing emptily at a wall.

“Thirty-eight,” Jason repeated, voice lackadaisical. “And I don’t know how many more are going to be struggling with their addictions and rehab.”

Still struggling, Bruce chose that sentence to grasp hold of and re-center himself with. “Didn’t you count the children?”

“Oh yeah. I know how many I removed from those warehouses.” Jason’s eyes lazily slid back over to Bruce, and his body loosened up as he leaned back in his seat, feigning boredom or indifference. “I just don’t know how many of them are going to kill themselves.”

And that kicked Bruce back down the flight of stairs he’d just struggled to climb with truth.

“I…” Bruce closed his eyes and took a breath. “I’m sorry.”

He heard a loud crash and his eyes snapped open to see Jason standing, chest heaving, his glass of water in shards on the ground.

 _“You’re fucking **sorry**?! _Are you fucking _kidding me?”_ Jason laughed bitterly, throwing his head back.

“Oh, oh that is just _rich!”_

Jason looked back at Bruce, who hadn’t said a word, and still smiling joylessly asked, “And _what,_ dare I ask, exactly are you _sorry_ for?”

Bruce didn’t hesitate with his answer.

“All of it.”

He stood, Jason tilting his head back a fraction to look Bruce in the lenses of his cowl, and moved to take the cuffs off.

Stunned, Jason merely stood there as the hand cuffs fell off his wrists and Bruce returned to his seat, easing himself into the chair again.

“I know that saying I’m sorry won’t do anything, Jay, and that is… unfortunate. So, I’d like to try this all again.” He gestured to the empty chair with a gauntleted hand.

When Jason didn’t budge—didn’t even blink, actually—Bruce sighed and lowered his cowl.

Lifting his blue eyes that seemed to grey right with his hair, Bruce met Jason’s strong green gaze.

Jason was in every way Bruce’s opposite, but in those very ways he was almost exactly like Bruce himself. His passion that fueled what he did, his stubbornness, his iron will. They even bore physical likeness. Jason was almost as tall as Bruce, and the older man had a suspicion his son would grow taller, his broad shoulders, his massive build. One would look at Jason beside Bruce and could be forgiven for mistaking them as biologically related.

But certain aspects of Jason were far from similar to Bruce’s. The way he forgave, the thirst for approval, the _need_ for acceptance, his compassion, the way he would do anything for family, friends, and even literal strangers. Jason planned things to the very letter, but would throw those plans right out the window for somebody. Bruce planned things the same way, and was only _forced_ to abandon them; he never willingly disregarded them for anybody. The only exception had been Jason, in Ethiopia, but nothing had been planned, then.

None of that was Bruce.

Yes, he forgave, but not as readily as Jason did. Yes, he was compassionate, but not to Jason’s level. Yes, he would do anything for his family and friends, but that was where he drew the line at _anything,_ and even then he had one exception: He wouldn’t kill, not even for them. Jason had no such reservations.

And it was just part of what made Jason, Jason. Bruce hated that he was only just realizing that it was as much a part of his son as Batman was a part of Bruce; he hated that it took Jason’s fury, Bruce _containing_ him in a room against his will, and a shouting match for him to understand and even try to grasp the concept.

Because Jason was _still_ his son.

Jason died.

But he came back.

Maybe he came back different, but he came back all the same.

As Jason gritted his teeth and forced himself to take his seat again, it suddenly wasn’t grown Jason moving.

It was Robin Jason, and he was _steaming_ about a case involving a rapist and murderer, those teal eyes aflame in the very same passion that burned within adult Jason’s permuted green eyes.

Bruce’s mouth went dry.

Jason crossed his arms, suspicion pulling at his lips and eyes.

“Try what again,” Jason deadpanned. “This?” he gestured between himself and Bruce, “This isn’t one of your romantic relationships, where you can fix it with a box of chocolates, some roses, and an ‘I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again’ Bruce.”

“I understand,” Bruce said, clearing his throat a little as his mind shook off the brief memory. “And I’m not going to treat it like one. I want to try and fix it, Jason, but only if _you_ will let me.”

Jason didn’t say anything for what felt to be an eternity, instead looking for something in Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce waited.

When he finally seemed satisfied, Jason’s entire body went lax and he leaned back in his seat and gazed up at the rocky ceiling.

“Why now? You just arrested me for _murder,_ and I’m pretty sure you were gonna cart me off to Blackgate or Arkham as soon as you realized that I’m not like your Rouges gallery: I’m irredeemable, unable to rehabilitate, and a psychotic killer who just adores breaking promises he makes to his friends, family, and himself.”

Where there was once a raging fury and passion in Jason’s eyes, there was now nothing but exhaustion and pain. There was confusion and resignation.

Bruce owed him a straight answer after two lifetimes without one.

“Because I love you, son.” His grey-blue eyes flicked to the scar just visible over the collar of Jason’s jacket, and he grimaced. “Hurting you is something I regret every second of every day. Adding a scar to the myriad on your body makes me want to puke, and I hate myself for it with every breath I take.

“I… didn’t react the way I should have when you came back, Jason,” Bruce whispered, looking back to Jason’s eyes. “And I am very sorry for that. I tried not to let my emotions bias my actions, but regardless they did, and I see that now.

“When you were Robin I told you that everyone, no matter who they are, has a chance at changing their lives. I told you that it’s why we never kill; because every life taken is one that didn’t get a second chance. The Joker I don’t believe will ever change, and I don’t kill him now because that would be betraying myself. If I were to stab him, or shoot him, or break his neck, I’d be stabbing myself. I’d be shooting myself. I’d be killing _myself._ If I kill, Jason, I’m betraying all of you right along with my morals.

“I expected you to hold fast to _my_ morals—expected you to take them as your own—so I was hurt when you took lives. I _feel_ betrayed when you kill. And I realize and acknowledge my mistake now. I thought that you killed because it was the easiest thing to do.

“Jason, I am _sorry_ for forcing my values onto you and holding you to them. I am _sorry_ for hurting you, I’m sorry for _fighting_ you and making you feel unwelcome, unloved, and abandoned.

“I’m sorry for betraying you.”

Bruce held his son’s gaze throughout the entirety of his speech before pausing to close his eyes, collect himself again, and opening them to continue.

“I can’t promise that it won’t hurt me in the future if or when you kill, but I can promise that I won’t make you feel like an outsider or an outcast because of it. You are my _son,_ you always have been, and I truly apologize for being blinded by the very thing many people believe me incapable of having—my feelings. If you’d give me the chance to be part of your life again—to be your father—I promise I won’t throw it away or mess up as badly as I did the first time.

“Even if you don’t want me to be your dad, and reject this, I ask that you at least try and not be so openly hostile with your brothers. They all want you back, Jason, even Timothy, who hasn’t even met you yet. Don’t let your grudge against me get in the way of having your brothers, at least, if you feel you won’t have me.”

Now finished, Bruce waited for Jason.

Minutes passed in silence before Jason did anything more than breathe and blink, and the moment he seemed to return to himself moisture collected in his eyes.

His voice cracked a little as he spoke, and it broke something in Bruce’s heart to hear his son’s voice so vulnerable.

“But you _replaced me,_ Bruce. How am I supposed to take that? I die, and not six months later you’ve got a new Robin flying next to you.” Jason didn’t bother to wipe at his eyes as they welled up with tears, instead continuing to stare at Bruce unashamedly. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Pain floored Bruce internally, and he felt his own eyes start tearing up with Jason’s. He tried to blink away the tears.

“Tim _never_ replaced you, Jason. Never.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause that’s a pretty convincing suit he puts on, albeit with pants.”

“I didn’t go _looking for him.”_

“Did you go looking for me?”

“I—you know what I mean. _He_ came to _me,_ Jason. Literally knocked on the door and blackmailed Dick and myself. What was I supposed to do? He knew I was Batman, that Dick was the first Robin, and that you were the second. He knew that the cover story was a lie. He _knew,_ Jason. _What was I supposed to do?_ I couldn’t risk Dick’s safety, Alfred’s safety, just because the neighbor boy was insistent. I tried using the Brucie act, but he stole the Robin suit and went out. I sent him home. He did it again the next night. And the next, and the next, until I took him in because he and had no training, and the approval of Dick and Alfred. He would have gotten killed if I didn’t, and damn me if I was going to watch another Robin die.”

His voice nearly took a pleading note as he asked Jason, _“What was I supposed to do?”_

The tears in Jason’s eyes finally started slipping down his face as he tried to keep his twitching lips in a thin line and he fisted the cloth on his arms.

Bruce licked his lips and finished with, “I love you Jason. _Nobody_ could _ever_ replace you.”

“The plaque says ‘A Good Soldier’,” Jason tried to argue in a shaky voice.

“That was me being an ignorant idiot, and I’ll go destroy the case as soon as—”

“You’d really do that?”

Bruce paused, brow twitching a little in confusion. “What? Destroy that insult to you? Of course, son. I’m sorry I ever put it up.”

Jason stood, shoving himself up and out of the seat, and pointed a shaking finger at Bruce.

“If you mean that, then let’s go. Let’s destroy that thing right the fuck now.”

And Bruce stood up and said, “Okay.”

He walked out of the interrogation room he had in the Batcave and left the door open for Jason, who was right on his heels, heading for the emergency axe he had by the Batcomputer.

Bruce grabbed it and handed it to Jason, taking a second for himself.

For a minute his hand was there, extended out toward Jason, holding the axe for his son to take, and Jason hesitated.

Then he snatched the weapon and Bruce went to walk toward the memorial case.

The entire time both were silent. The entire cave was, even the bats who usually squeaked often enough for there never to be true quiet. Dick was on patrol with Tim. Alfred was probably in the Manor. It didn’t matter, because that meant that this moment would belong to Bruce and Jason alone, as they stood before the case.

Bruce’s gut twisted in disgust as he re-read the plaque.

_In memory of Jason Todd_

_Robin_

_A good soldier_

What had he been thinking, making that thing?

Face contorting into a scowl Bruce lifted the axe and swung as hard as he could at the glass, hitting it hard enough to watch several satisfying cracks spiderweb from the spot he’d hit it.

He did it again, and it cracked even more.

The third time, Jason swung before he could, hitting it with force enough that probably matched Bruce’s.

The glass was almost broken.

The final blow Jason and Bruce made at the same time.

As the case cracked and splintered to the ground, Jason threw the axe on the ground and himself at Bruce, arms wrapping tight around his father as he started crying into the Batsuit.

Bruce dropped his own axe and returned the embrace tightly, putting a hand on the back of Jason’s head as the other held his son close. He rested his mouth on Jason’s head, squeezing his eyes shut as emotion flooded him.

The last time he’d hugged Jason Bruce couldn't remember, and he hated himself even more for that.

A tear slipped down his cheek and he held his trembling and sobbing son closer.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, _so,_ sorry.”

Jason replied between his silent sobs.

“I _forgive_ you, dad.”

“I love you, Jaylad. _God_ I missed you.”

And they both cried in each other’s arms.

* * *

_“I shall do so,_

_But I must also feel it as a man._

_I cannot but remember such things were_

_That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on_

_And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,_

_They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,_

_Not for their own demerits, but for mine,_

_Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now.”_

_—Macduff, in Macbeth by William Shakespeare_

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't get it, the title comes from Macbeth! (yes I'm reading Shakespeare lately, don't judge me)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I really hope you cried the way I did as I wrote this 😂
> 
> Lots of love, guys!


End file.
